


Une Douleur que Je ne Peut Pas Tracer

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: America is actually a nice person, Gen, General relationships - Freeform, Hurt!France, Injured fic, Who knew right, and a good friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 19:47:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3221183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the recent massacres in France; when the citizens of his country are murdered, Francis feels it. He feels so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Une Douleur que Je ne Peut Pas Tracer

-=-=-=-=-=-

France was having tea when the pains started. At first he thought he might have scalded his mouth on the hot liquid…but then the chest pains were still there even after he had stopped for a good five minutes.

It wasn’t a pain he’d felt often, but he was aware that it _had_ happened…

An overwhelming sense of acute _panic_ suddenly gripped him. His fair-skinned hands shook as he gripped the back of his chair. Wide blue eyes blinked rapidly as the suddenly terrified country tried to control his breathing.

 _“Mon Dieu…”_ he mumbled weakly, wincing as another wave of agony rolled over him. “Why…?” his vision was fogging up. A fit of coughing gripped him and he fell to his knees, almost gagging with the force of it.

“I can…hardly breathe…” he wheezed, drawing in a lungful of air. The pain, the panic, the shortness of breath, all suddenly vanished with deadly silence.

Deadly silence.

Francis suddenly shot to his feet, nearly knocking over the tea-table in the process.

The second wave of burning pain was starting up as he reached his phone, trembling fingers turning the old-fashioned dial he had such a fondness for. The fact that he would never have called _that_ number otherwise said something about his desperation.

After four (literally) agonising rings, the slightly raucous voice answered. “Yo, France! What’s up with the call, man?”

“I-I think someone’s died.”

“You’re really out of breath-“

“I’m in agony, you idiot!” France snapped, then drew in a deep, burning inhale. “Someone. Has. Died.”

“Oh. Who?”

“I don’t know!” The brightly-clad country was on his knees; on the verge of tears; on the brink of breakdown. He _needed_ Alfred to listen to him right now, damn it! “Listen, _please._ I need your help. I, agh, I need you to find out who…who’s dying…”

“Rare day this is,” the younger man commented.

“ALFRED-“

“I’m coming! Don’t get your bloomers in a crease.”

“Please hurry.” Francis didn’t even care that he was begging-the third wave of an excruciating mix of panic and pain was making it hard to concentrate.

“I’m on my way. You _so_ owe me!” Was Alfred’s arrogant reply as he hung up with a _click!_

Francis managed to get the receiver back into its cradle, staring at his shaking hands. How could Alfred be so callous…? One or a hundred, it hardly mattered-his precious people were _dying_ and he had the nerve to say he _owed_ him?!

He lost count of how many minutes elapsed as he waited; eventually, he just curled up and tried to take how badly it hurt. Uselessly, of course.

He felt like he was beginning to understand the pattern, at least.

Every wave was another invaluable citizen dead. Tears welled in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks as he wondered why. The sun was bright outside; he could hear his fountain gurgling in the garden. And yet, somewhere, in some place, four lives had been snuffed out abruptly as extinguishing a candle. It felt like he was being ripped apart himself, every throb, every nauseating wave of burning pain, he could sense.

How many _more_ before the day ended?

Somewhere below he could hear his front door fly open and heavy footsteps on the stairs.

“France! Francis!” Someone was pulling him up, slinging him over a broad shoulder.

“Agh-! Dear God, man, have pity…”

“Sorry, man!” Alfred’s voice was oddly grave as he carried the injured country to his bedroom.

“Did you…” Francis’ chest heaved. “Did you find out who it was?”

Alfred was again uncharacteristically silent.

“Tell me!” Blonde hair flattened against the sheets as France cried out, his voice high-pitched. His hand gripped onto Alfred’s left sleeve and refused to let go.

The younger country pulled at the curl on his forehead as he spoke, voice low. “There was a massacre…four people were dead when we left. Five more wounded. Couple doctors I talked to didn’t expect them to last the night.”

A fresh bout of tears rolled down Francis’ pale cheeks. “No… _Cela ne peut pas se produire…_ *

“Francis, I’m so sorry.” The mirth was gone from America’s voice.

“Who killed them?” His voice was shaking, but now with anger as well as fear.

“Two brothers. Terrorists. …Lunatics.”

“And have they been found?”

“One. The other is on the run.”

“I want him found.” Francis’ voice was flat. “Even if I have to do it- _sacre bleu!-_ myself.”

Alfred stood over him, his boyish face riddle with worry. “Shouldn’t you wait until you’re…you know…better?”

France maneuvered himself into a sitting position, even though the simple action caused almost unbearable agony. Tears shone in his eyes as he spoke, choosing his words carefully. “Alfred…my people have died. Are dying. And one of the men who killed them is still alive. And you think I will sit here and do _nothing?_ ”

“No, I just-“

Francis stood, his bearing as proud as his face, straightening. “The pain I now feel only serves to motivate me, American. I will find strength in their deaths.”

Alfred looked at him doubtfully, confusion clear in his features.

“Are you going to help me?” Francis’ tone was tempered steel. “Because if not, get out. Go back home to your burgers and planes.”

“Hey-!”

Whatever America had been intending to say, he decided it was better not to say it. Francis did not look as if he were in the mood for a verbal fight; it was clear that the luxurious country was spoiling for a real one.

Alfred wasn’t about to get in his way.

“What do you need done?” He asked, more firmly.

The blue-clad country looked out towards the window, to where the mid-afternoon sun was warming the white stones of his terrace. He gave an almost unconscious wince; hand drifting to clutch at his side.

“Francis…?” Alfred’s voice was uncertain, a few steps behind him.

This time there was only a pause before he answered.

“Bring me the man you caught.”

_Fin._

-=-=-=-=-

*”This can’t be happening.”


End file.
